Two-continents Watson
by I'm Nova
Summary: Having a soulmate doesn't mean never making an arse of yourself in front of them...warning for like five seconds of noncon because misunderstandings, but I swear this is mostly fun. Dedicated to missmuffin221 who said I should write this. :D


_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I know, I know, speaking of soulmate stories, I should be writing Inked…and I am, I promise! I don't know why last month I was hit by such a brutal block that I couldn't write a single line of it. I'm trying to catch up with it but we'll see what I do…in the meantime, my dearest missmuffin221 asked me to write this and I thought it fit the soulmate prompt. Enjoy (I hope)!_

Two-continents Watson

John had always hated the whole soulmate thing. Not because the idea of someone completing him perfectly didn't sound appealing, God knows. But, to begin with, the best you could expect was a reasonable probability that they were your soulmate, but never complete certainty. His parents would swear up and down that they were destined, but honestly they seemed to draw out the worst in each other. They were certainly happy with that, for some twisted reason. It didn't mean he had to like growing up in this family, or didn't dream that his parents' proper soulmates wouldn't appear someday, prove them wrong and put everything to rights. It never happened. So excuse him for being a bit jaded about the bliss of love, and deciding to make up for its lack with sex. All the sex. After all, hormonal releases were a scientific, proven thing. Not perfect happiness, but close enough.

Besides, even if he was one of these destiny obsessed naïve people, the chance of mistakes was not so out there. Especially with stupid sentences like Harriet's, "What are you drinking?" He blamed her stupid soulmate for his sister's drinking problem. It was easier than facing so many other troubles, at home and outside. So, really, fuck soulmates.

Having been teased for most of his teen years about his own destined didn't help John's mindset on the matter, either. Out of all the possible combinations of words in the English language, he was stuck with one that made no sense. Harry's was stupid, sure. Mum's "Hello, gorgeous!" downright cringey. But, "I need a Handy" didn't mean a thing at all. A handy what? Was he going to interrupt whoever would be talking to him? And why was Handy written with a capital? Weird punctuation was not something that usually appeared in soulmate Sentences…

So of course, as soon as his classmates' hormones – and his own – started flaring up, and they shared Sentences (just in case, you see, there was nothing saying when the meeting was supposed to happen – maybe some already had, they thought excitedly) people decided that John's soulmate was a retard. They couldn't even string together a coherent phrase!

John growled, and fought, and in the end started to cover his mark all the time. He wouldn't admit that he got into medical school because occasions when people weren't entirely coherent were decidedly more frequent in a hospital. No, he was not looking to hook up with a patient. Just, you know, helping fate along a bit – possibly.

Life brought him to Afghanistan later…mostly because he was a secret adrenaline addict and diagnosing colds all day for the rest of his career made him want to slam his head against a wall. And Afghanistan – and the army – brought him peace about the whole soulmate thing. It was funny.

None of them found theirs yet, of course. No one 'perfectly happy' would risk getting murdered every second. It didn't mean that they didn't look forward to it, especially the younger boys. One night (they were all relaxing, and many soldiers of the other contingents present had joined in) the conversation veered to soulmates and, before they knew it, they were all swapping Sentences and imagining what it was going to be like.

John seriously considered withholding his own, even when asked directly. But what the heck, they weren't fifteen anymore, and he put his life in these men's hands every day. He could admit his soulmate was going to have…problems. Besides, no one was insane enough to get on the bad side of the doctor. He wouldn't let anyone die over a grudge, obviously…but he could make everything more painful than it strictly needed to be if they tried to make his life hell like kids back then.

Instead of spite, Jason (one of the Americans) whistled and said, "You lucky dog! Why does no one ever tell me that first thing, you Casanova?"

"Sorry, what?" John asked, utterly puzzled.

"I've heard a lot of approaches and flirting, but I always need a bit to get people to drop their pants for me. Not Watson, people. He just needs to enter a room and people will throw themselves at him," Jason declared, with exaggerated gestures, as if the other was part of a freak show and he the director.

"Still not seeing your point," John snapped.

It was the American's turn to say, "Uh?" After a pause of a moment, he said, "Don't tell me you don't call it a handy! You know, a _handjob._ Someone will be _very_ happy to meet you."

Well, that wasn't something John had ever considered, and frankly, it was silly of him to assume that just because the sentence was in English it would be in the British version of it. It certainly put a positive spin on his mysterious soulmate. The fact that it would be a man, rather than a girl as he expected…well, that required some thought, but a soulmate was a soulmate. Nobody would dare to criticise that. For one, you didn't pick them. According to the various concepts, it was God, genes, or destiny. Anyway, not something you had control over. And as much as he hadn't decided to pursue any guy he had a crush on yet, well, soulmates were supposed to be special by default.

That was when Captain Watson got nicknamed Three Continents. He had his numerous girlfriends back in Britain, some conquests here – despite the local laws not really lending themselves to flings, but something as small as that would never stop John's amorous conquests – and this unnamed, smitten American dude in his future. It might not have happened yet, but it counted, as far as his fellow soldiers thought. John laughed it off, but he was far from embarrassed.

Finally, he looked forward to meeting his destined one someday. All he needed to do was survive until it happened. A Sentence was not a definite assurance. Someone thought it meant that the meeting would definitely happen, in one life or another. But as it stood, if you died before finding them, the words of your intended partner would simply fade away, as if they'd never been there.

Miles away, Sherlock wondered when he was going to find his own soulmate, sulking in a silent protest against the universe. It wasn't fair! True, his own parents met relatively late, and Mycroft was still without his, but there was a big difference. People liked them – all of them. (Or in mum's case at least they were so impressed they would never think to bully her.) He was without any friends, and it was his soulmate's fault, so the least they could do was show up, isn't it?

Mycroft would tell him to stop being childish and blaming his absent soulmate for his own shortcomings, but Mycroft had never understood anyway, because – despite their parents being _disgustingly_ in love – he'd always been more hungry for power than for love. Yep, his elder brother was the true weirdo – he was just better at hiding it.

But the point was, after Mycroft taught him deduction, a very young Sherlock had hoped that he could deduce enough of his soulmate to will him to come, or at least to know where to meet him. That was the first time he couldn't make bricks without clay…errr, couldn't deduce without clues. And his only clue was a single sentence. Six words. "Well, since you asked so nicely…" He couldn't hear a voice, have a name, an age, a calligraphy…anything.

Dad's Sentence was, "Sorry, could you help me?" And with him being the most kind person ever – and looking like it too – he had to have heard it a billion times before finding mum, who somehow managed to get herself lost both from her group and in London. Nobody said that being a brilliant mathematician meant you had to have perfect orientation skills too. (That might be one of the reasons dad followed mum back to Germany, at that; he could trust her to do the shopping there, and while not a genius, he always had a talent to pick up languages). How had he not gone mad?

That was a serious concern for a very young Sherlock, so once he simply asked him. His reply was, "Well, yes, I always got a tiny fluttering feeling, but I figured that your mum would be the one smart enough to figure out what we were. And I was right!"

Well, since everyone said that he was an idiot, but the others were even worse, the not yet consulting detective decided early on that he needed to make sure he'd hear his Sentence, if not once, at least very rarely. Hence why he started being as rude as he could get away with (rather a lot, it appeared). Between that and his unfiltered deductions, of course people hated him. So, you see, his being alone was all his soulmate's fault. He wasn't wrong.

For years, Sherlock's soulmate still stubbornly decided to stay away. In the meantime, Mycroft had managed to start a secretly brilliant, if understated, political career and moved to London. And of course his brother followed him there, because there was no way he'd take the mantle of the boy who, being still close to home, could be pestered all the time…

If he had wanted to move anywhere else, with his rather troubled past, very probably his parents would have objected. Teenager and young adult years were never easy, but much less when you were overshadowed at home, bullied at school and generally felt out of place all the time – his coping methods might not have been the best, but whose were? Mycroft (despite being 'busy, Mutti!') was still expected to look out for him, so Sherlock had gone. Not that he would let Piecroft tell him what to do. He could take care of himself. His whole family would have probably chorused, "Doubtful," at such a declaration from him, but he'd show them.

And he had, at that. After accidentally stumbling on a crime scene, and solving it for the idiots bumbling around (and getting arrested for his troubles, because they couldn't believe he'd know what happened unless directly involved) he found his calling. Deductions could be used for more than games with Mycroft and pissing off idiots. He created his own job title, obviously, because he'd rather go back home that enter the proper police force and _take orders_ from people that couldn't deduce what you had for lunch if you ordered it in front of them. (How did Mycroft do it? Or had done it – at the start?)

Sherlock didn't forget about his soulmate, but allowed himself to be…distracted. Until that fateful day. 29th January, 2010. The man strolling in after Stamford took his breath away. The sleuth had a thing for soldiers since his hormones activated, and this one. Doctor/Soldier/just back from war/hurt in action/ hero flitted through his brain, so far, so obvious. He might have figured out more if his blood flow hadn't suffered an instantaneous redirection southward.

Never mind that, he couldn't gape. He had a case to solve. He needed to text Lestrade if he wanted ease of mind to engage Army Doctor here. Fuck. No signal. "I need.." he hesitated a fraction of second, feeling like the word wasn't maybe quite correct, but damn it. It sounded English, his brain had officially shortcircuited, and it would be obvious anyway to Stamford. "..A Handy," he finished, holding out his hand.

The result wasn't what he expected. Army Doctor grinned, a delighted, but slightly predatory grin, and then….and then he said, "Well, since you asked so nicely…"

Before he'd stopped reeling from hearing that sentence, Sherlock was reeling for an entirely different matter, because his soulmate (he had to be!) had sent Stamford away with a meaningful look, taken two quick steps and he was…busying himself with the detective's belt? And cupping a feel at the same time?

Sherlock had been inflicted a number of romantic movies during his life (oddly, probably more for Daddy's sake than Mutti's) and would possibly not have objected at being snogged breathless. But even in the most sappy shows, people didn't usually react to finding their soulmate by fucking them into a wall without so much as a by your leave.

Which was why, despite being delighted by the situation, he instinctively jumped backwards. His soulmate was left with hanging hands and a gaping mouth.

"What…but…" Army Doctor mumbled, before frowning, snapping his mouth shut, and blushing to the roots of his hair. "Don't tell me…you're not American?" he whispered, sounding rather horrified.

Well, that was insulting. "Not at all. I'm a perfect British gentleman, I'll have you know," the sleuth huffed, straightening to loom over his idiotic soulmate.

"Not exactly perfect, because your Sentence makes no sense in British English, you know," John retorted. Oh fuck. The man was gorgeous, and he'd been absolutely delighted at the proposition, but had he actually landed a language impaired soulmate? Just his luck.

"No sense…are you saying Handy is not an English word?" Sherlock challenged.

"Of course it is. An adjective, at that. So, you see, you lack a noun in your phrase to make it complete," the doctor explained, deciding he'd be calm and solve this…situation.

"Oh, crumpets!" the detective exclaimed, and it was the most endearing sentence John had ever heard. "Dad is British, but mum is German and I grew up there…how do you text then?"

"Wait, do you want a phone? A mobile phone?" John queried, his voice a tad too high in his shock, rummaging in his pockets for it already.

When the other nodded, he handed his own over, saying, "Christ, sorry, I promise, I'm not a rapist. It's just that I had an American mate that told me that over there Handy was a sex thing, and that way the Sentence sounded complete…I won't protest if you plan to report me to the police, I'm John Watson in case you didn't pay attention before… And yes, technically I was horrible, but I swear, it was a misunderstanding, I would never…"

"Please cease your babbling, John," Sherlock snapped. "DI Lestrade has already a murder to solve, well, I just solved it for him, but a murderer to apprehend, I guess, and he won't care that you've been an idiot. Nor will I. Everyone is an idiot anyway, and you had some basis for your assumption."

John sighed deeply. "You just solved a murder. Oh God. You're a genius, and gorgeous, and I…I am a crippled unemployed doctor. What the fuck was destiny thinking?"

"Now, don't whine. You're a former army surgeon who's hurt but not crippled – that's psychosomatic, obviously – and still has a varied and useful skillset. I am a chronically insomniac _former_ junkie with moods so bad I won't talk for days sometimes. This is your chance to run, but please consider also that I reacted badly to your approach only because it was wholly unexpected. I wouldn't mind at all if we might continue this later, but maybe after dinner because I've been on a case, my last meal was Tuesday's dinner and I'd want to devote myself to you full of energy," the sleuth babbled quickly.

That seemed to shock the doctor out of his self-hating funk. "It's Friday," he said flatly.

"Is it?" the detective asked, sounding surprised.

"Yep," John confirmed, popping the p. "You made your point, we're both a mess – starting to see why the universe thinks we belong together. How you aren't keeling over, I don't know. Now, you, me, food. Doctor's orders. I want to see you ingest it, just to make sure. Then, we can start to figure out how being soulmates works for us. Things can't actually go worse for us, can they?"

"Not unless the meaning of that has changed, too. Better is the word you were looking for, about the future, John. Better, besser, meglio, mieux, **лучшее** …"

John laughed. "With all these languages in your head, no wonder you mix them up every now and then! You're amazing, you know?"

Sherlock blushed, and damn if it wasn't the most sexy thing the other had ever seen. "How do you feel about Italian?" he replied instead.

"Anything you like. Whenever, wherever," his soulmate said fervently, and he meant it. Captain John Watson might not ever technically deserve the nickname his brother in arms gave him. But he'd happily give all his flings in the whole world, past and likely in the future, for what he just found. Long years of suspicion and bitterness towards the soulmate institution had suddenly melted. His parents were his parents, and frankly, would have probably been horrible even alone. But he was his own person. No, wait, he was Sherlock's person. And it was good.

 _P.S. The Russian word reads lučšee, bet you know the meaning ;D_ _(Taken from Google translate so I might be horribly wrong, mind. If so, apologies!) Also, Mutti should be the German version of Mummy (if not, again, apologies, and please Jo don't forsake me!)_


End file.
